


The harder I swim, the faster I sink.

by Hodgy (orphan_account)



Category: 9-1-1: Lone Star (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst, Drug Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Essentially TK finds out about Owen's cancer and relapses, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mentions of Cancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22413727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Hodgy
Summary: “Dispatch, this is Officer Reyes, responding to a complaint on the corner of West Monroe and South First. I’ve got a code 10-56 here, suspected overdose. Can I get an ETA on medical?”Officer Reyes. Carlos. “Carlos?” TK grits out, squinting at the white light blasting his vision.There’s another crackle on the radio and then a “EMT’s are on route, nine minutes away.” filters through. Carlos breathes a “Copy, Dispatch” into the receiver, and then his palm is cupping TK’s cheek, warm and solid.“Yeah, TK, it’s me. What did you take?”
Relationships: Carlos Reyes (9-1-1 Lone Star)/TK Strand
Comments: 16
Kudos: 542





	The harder I swim, the faster I sink.

TK’s knees hit the sharp gravel of an unfamiliar street, and his body crumples in on itself not long after. What was once a sharp stab in his side has now morphed into an ache; dull and throbbing. His clothes are sticking to his skin, and he realizes belatedly that it’s not sweat, but blood that’s blooming across his abdomen and sinking into his jacket.

He can’t really even  _ see _ , he realizes. Everything around him is too bright, spinning. It reminds him of the static that buzzed on his Dad’s old television set on the rare rainy day back in Santa Monica. It’s comforting in a way, because those days gave him some of the best memories of his childhood. Intermingled between constant gnawing anxiety and self-hatred over his sexuality and nights unable to sleep, so scared of his Dad not coming home when he went on a call out that he was diagnosed with Ambien as soon as he hit puberty. 

Dad. _ Dad.  _ TK presses his forehead into the blacktop. It should hurt, he thinks, but he can’t feel it. Can’t feel anything.

TK can hear the screech of tires around him. A horn. Profanities being thrown his way from seemingly every direction. Someone is grabbing at his clothes, pulling him away from the noise and off the street.

TK barely registers that there’s a man kneeling in front of him. He’s talking, going on and on about something in a thick southern drawl. Finally, the guy shakes his head and places a hand on TK’s shoulder; “Get some help, for fuck’s sake.” he says, and TK feels 19 again, being scolded by his dad after he raided the medicine cabinet the first time. God he’s such a  _ fuck up _ .

The man stands, and leaves, and TK is alone again.

It doesn’t take long for him to black out again. TK can feel himself slipping, the welcoming arms of a familiar warmth beckoning to him; the kind that calls to you when you’ve not slept for what seems like days and your head hits the pillow after a hot shower. The kind that settles deep in your bones when you’ve pulled on a much needed cigarette after a round of good sex. 

TK dreams of his Dad, of his childhood. They were thick as thieves when TK was a kid, best friends. There was no one in the world that TK wanted to be like more than his Dad. Then, 9/11 happened, and TK felt like he’d lost him despite the fact that he was lucky enough to come home that day.  _ He’s hurting right now _ TK’s Mom had told him at the time  _ He’ll be better soon.  _ Only a few years later, she'd filed for divorce, and it was just TK and Owen again. 

He hated him at first, resented him for losing his Mom and for so many other things. TK was so fucking scared of coming out that he ended up hanging around the wrong people, started messing with things he shouldn’t. It was over one specific summer in TK’s last year at high school when they reconnected properly again. TK had overdosed for the second time; mixing oxy’s and tequila with his piece of shit excuse for a boyfriend, and Owen gave him an ultimatum. Give up the partying, volunteer at the NYFD for his summer break, start acting like an adult, and he’d still have a place to sleep.

TK thinks a lot about that Summer; forced to bond with his Dad around the department dining table with cards and board games. Owen had taught him Rummy, Texas Hold ‘Em, Five Card Stud. But Sevens was always their favourite. He came out that summer, discovered some actual self worth, even got a little part time job over the weekends stacking boxes at the local Walmart. That summer saved his life. He got his Dad back, and now… now he was going to lose him again.

There’s a voice, pulling him back to reality. It’s familiar. There are fingers pressing against his neck, then his wrist and his forehead.

“TK? TK can you hear me?”

Two strong arms wrap around his middle. He’s being pulled up off the ground, but his knees are too weak to comply, so he falls back to the tarmac again. Whoever is trying to get him up stops him from hitting the ground too hard and maneuvers him into a sitting position against their chest.

“C’mon TK, get up, you need to get up, TK please. _ ” _

All TK can do is mumble back. His mouth isn’t working the way he wants it too; tongue too heavy and throat too dry to croak out anything in return.

“Did you take something? The EMT’s are coming but I need you to tell me what you took.”

TK coughs. There’s a harsh light shining into his eyes and then the crackle of a radio somewhere close to his ear.

“Dispatch, this is Officer Reyes, responding to a complaint on the corner of West Monroe and South First Streets. I’ve got a code 10-56 here, suspected overdose. Can I get an ETA on medical?”

Officer Reyes. Carlos. “Carlos?” TK grits out, squinting at the white light blasting his vision.

There’s another crackle on the radio and then a “EMT’s are on route, nine minutes away.” filters through. Carlos breathes a “Copy, Dispatch” into the receiver, and then his palm is cupping TK’s cheek, warm and solid.

“Yeah, TK, it’s me. What did you take?”

Carlos’ voice is the embodiment of a soft, warm blanket wrapping around TK’s shoulders. It’s calm, and smooth, and TK hasn’t heard it in such a long time. 

_ Why?  _ TK thinks, trying his best to get his eyes to focus on Carlos, _ Did we fight? _

“Carlos? We fought? M’sorry”

“Hey” Carlos says, and TK can almost see him clearly now. He looks scared. “Don’t worry about that right now, I just need you to tell me what you took.”

“I can’t… remember. Pills. I think. Percs? What are you doing here? Is my Dad here?”

Fuck. His Dad. He’s in surgery, getting a tumor cut out of his chest.

“I’ll call him--” Carlos starts, before TK goes rigid, shaking his head so quickly he feels himself go dizzy. “No, no please. Please don’t.”

“Okay.” Carlos soothes, “I won’t call him.”

TK can feel Carlos’ hand run through his hair and press against his forehead again. He manages a small “Okay.” before he feels his eyes drift closed once again.

  
  
  
  
  
  


The next time he wakes up, he’s in the back of an ambulance. Michelle is hovering above him and Carlos is sitting by his feet on the gurney, face buried in his hands.

“TK, honey, can you hear me?” She turns to look at a young EMT that TK doesn’t think he’s seen before. “Dante, get me a Naloxone kit and an IV.”

“Stay still, sweetie.” Michelle says, and then his vision goes black again.

  
  
  
  
  
  


When TK comes to, the stark white ceiling of the ambulance is replaced by a criss-cross pattern of seafoam green roof-tiles. There are white plastic curtains on either side of him; ‘PROPERTY OF DELL SETON MEDICAL CENTER’ stamped in blue on the top and bottom of each.

He’s in the hospital. 

The last 24 hours flood right back. Going on a call-out. His Dad pulling off his gloves and coughing into his hand, palm coming out red and slick with blood. Shoving Owen into his car and speeding to the hospital. Wheeling him in to surgery. 

_ He has Cancer. _

The surgeon’s words echo around his head, fill him up with another wave of dread.

He remembers then, storming out of the hospital, punching the stuccoed concrete outside until his knuckles bled. Then, turning his key. He took a moment, he remembers that. Thought about it for a second: the consequences of what he was about to do. Might have been progress if he didn’t push all of that aside and go straight to the first dealer he could find peddling pills on a street corner. TK hates himself so much he wants to scream.

The next thing that comes back to him, is Carlos. Carlos talking to him. Carlos checking his pulse. Carlos by his side in that ambulance.

TK turns his head to one side, and then the other. Carlos is there, knocked out in a tiny, uncomfortable looking bucket chair. Even in sleep, his brow is furrowed. TK wants to reach out and press the little line between his eyebrows down flat.

He debates waking Carlos for a minute, but he can’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he watches Carlos’ chest rise and fall. Traces the lines of striped shadows crossing his face with his eyes. Watches the light reflect off of TK’s eyelashes when it hits mid-afternoon. 

A nurse comes in after a while, checks his vitals, assures him he’s doing well and that a Doctor will be in to see him shortly. Carlos manages to sleep through the entire thing, probably in part due to TK telling her to keep it the fuck down.

“Carlos?” TK finally says once she’s gone, doing his best to talk through his cotton-mouth. 

Carlos stirs, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms.

“Mm?” He says, still half asleep, before “Shit, TK?” Carlos’ eyes shoot open. They’re red around the edges. He looks exhausted. Another wave of guilt punches TK square in the gut.

“Hey.” TK croaks.

In what feels like a second, Carlos is by TK’s bedside with a palm cupping his cheek. A flash of Carlos doing the same when he was near passed-out on the street crosses his vision.

“How are you feeling?”

The pad of Carlos’ thumb is rhythmically brushing across TK’s cheekbone.

“You scared the shit out of me, you know that?”

Carlos sounds so painfully sincere that TK has to look away at the threat of tearing up. 

Jesus fucking  _ Christ _ . 

What  _ can  _ you say to someone after they’ve found you like that? It’s horrible, TK knows from experience. He found his high-school boyfriend convulsing on his bathroom floor one night after a game. He was closeted, a jock; drugs helped him cope. TK still has nightmares about it sometimes. 

It hurts to know he’s inflicted the same thing on his dad more than once. And now, on Carlos. Sweet, generous, breathtakingly beautiful Carlos, who TK just can’t seem to stop hurting. 

“I’m sorry.” TK says, voice breaking on the last syllable. Fuck, he’s going to cry isn’t he. “I don’t even know how to start explaining this to you. I don’t know if I can.”

“TK, listen to me.” Carlos says, voice barely above a whisper. “We don’t need to talk about it. I’m just… Fuck, I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you.” TK breathes out, nervous fingers twisting knots in the hospital issue bed sheets.

Carlos shushes him, fingers lifting from his cheek to comb TK’s hair out of his eyes. They sit in silence for a moment, before Carlos takes a deep breath, and opens his mouth to speak again. He shuts it promptly, clenching his jaw tight and looking down at his feet.

“What’s wrong?” TK asks, concerned. “Fuck, Dad-- is he, is he okay?” TK sits up straight, eyes frantic, thick nausea turning his chest numb.

“Hey, calm down.” Carlos soothes, palm finding its’ way back to that spot on TK’s cheek. “He’s okay, he’s fine” TK sits in bated breath, waiting for the inevitable ‘but’. “He’s in the ICU. Awake. His lung collapsed during surgery but as far as I know it went well aside from that.”

TK breathes a sigh of relief, falling back on to his bed, eyes squeezing shut; angry tears turning quickly to those of elation.  _ He’s okay _ .

  
  
  


Later, when the Doctor comes to assess him, Carlos is still there, holding TK’s hand tight when he’s asked about  _ when _ and  _ how _ and  _ why _ he took what he took.

Carlos bristles beside him when his history is brought up; his multiple trips to the emergency room and his stays in rehab, but he never lets go of TK’s hand.

When visiting hours are over, TK pulls Carlos in by the collar of his shirt and kisses him, dizzy with how desperately he’s wanted to do that since they last spoke.

The next morning, when Carlos arrives with two hot cups of coffee and several baked goods because “I didn’t know what you like” they eat in relative silence, sharing the odd chunk of sandwich and shy glance.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know.” 

Carlos is staring down at his shoes, rolling the last few crumbs of his savoury muffin between his fingers.

“Do what?” TK asks, reaching for another pastry. 

“Kiss me.” Carlos says back, matter of fact.

TK pauses, eyes locked on Carlos’, motivation for the pastry he was craving a moment prior swirling down the drain.

“You didn’t want me to?”

TK hates how his insides are twisting up, anxiety festering in his gut.

“No--” Carlos quickly shakes his head, scooting his chair closer. “It’s not that, I- _ of course _ I wanted you to. I just don’t know if you’re… doing it because  _ you _ want to if you’re doing it because you think _ I _ want to. Which I  _ do _ , but--  _ fuck _ . I just don’t want you to do something you might regret.”

Carlos is looking at him, open and expectant and gorgeous as ever. “I know I fucked up, okay? With the dinner? I know I did. It’s not -- It wasn’t because I don’t like you. I do. God, I like you so much it fucking  _ hurts _ sometimes. It’s just… me. I have things. Stuff. Awful stuff that I’ve done in my life and I’ve tried so hard to get past it but I keep on messing up. I’m trying to be better, I swear.”

Carlos nods, finds TK’s hand and laces their fingers together.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, TK. Okay.”

Carlos presses their lips together and TK feels his stomach flip. When he pulls away, he presses their foreheads together.

“Please TK, don’t do this to yourself again.” He whispers, thumb tracing circles into the back of TK’s hand.

TK nods, finds Carlos’ lips again, wraps an arm around his neck to pull him in closer.

“Promise. I’ll go back to therapy, rehab, everything. I need to be here for my Dad.”

“Good.” Carlos says, smile pure and reassuring and everything TK needs.

  
  
  
  


Later, when Carlos is ushered out into the hallway because visiting hours are up, he leaves with a promise of dinner and a trip to see Owen who is already out of the ICU and on bed-rest.

TK has a long way to go, he knows that. But maybe, he thinks, just maybe, it’s going to be a little easier now.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Sour Breath" by Julien Baker. Beautiful song.
> 
> Comments and love are appreciated as always. <3 Thank you for your support angels.
> 
> Who's excited for Monday?!


End file.
